


The Sorting

by shellcollector



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crossover, I refuse to accept the validity of any non-Gryffindor sorting for Enjolras, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Originally Posted on Tumblr, and may as well state this upfront
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/pseuds/shellcollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hat always allows you to make your own choice, if you ask it. Even if you really shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sorting

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I was talking with a few others about Sorting/Hogwarts AUs, and I mentioned that I really don’t grok Gryffindor R… and [tumblr user] midautumnnightdream pointed out that he would have been sorted after Enjolras, and would have probably have Decided they were going to be in the same house just because. Whereupon I realised that this was the world’s saddest sorting headcanon. So heartbreaking, in fact, that I couldn’t help expanding it into a ficlet of it’s own.

“All right,” says Professor McGonagall. “Alphabetical order, please.”

Joly, the boy Grantaire shared a carriage with on the train, seems to be having trouble breathing.

“There are just so many ways this could go _wrong_ ,” he whispers loudly. “I was reading on the way up about one time a girl put the hat on and it swallowed her whole. It turned out she was half-banshee.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” says another kid, his voice full of indignation. “Why wouldn’t a half-banshee be allowed at Hogwarts?”

Grantaire turns to look and sure enough, it’s That One. The blond-haired boy he saw walking through the train corridor, the one he _wanted_ to share a carriage with but didn’t dare, and he doesn’t regret it exactly - Joly’s really nice and they shared books and chocolate frogs, but he can’t stop thinking what if -

“Do you have the book on you?” says the kid. “Because if this so-called hat is about to start eating half-humans or even those who aren’t human at all I’m not sure I want to be sorted.”

He’s talking pretty loudly.

“Mr Enjolras,” says Professor McGonagall. “Firstly, that is a legend without substance, as Mr Joly would know if he’d paid attention to the title of the book in which it appears, which as I recall is ‘Strange Rumours and Ghostly Maybes’ by Eustacia Muckridge. Secondly, sorting is not an optional element of your education at Hogwarts. Thirdly, I would like you to get into your place in the queue immediately and quietly. The ceremony is about to begin.”

Grantaire isn’t sure if anyone notices the weird-looking kid who’s next in line to Joly reach out a hand, or Joly taking it and starting to breathe more slowly. The boy’s hair seems to have fallen out in patches, but his smile is nice, and Grantaire warms to him.

The children are still arranging themselves in order, going down the line sharing names. Grantaire wishes there weren’t so many letters between E and G.

“Hey baldy,” hisses a large boy to Joly’s new buddy. “What’s your name?”

“Lesgles”

“How’s that spelled?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m Le Cabuc, and I’m pretty sure this is where I’m supposed to be in the queue. Fancy moving your mangy head out of the - OUCH!”

“Mr Joly,” says McGonagall. “No violence, please. I’d deduct house points, but since you’re still un-Sorted I’ll have to let it slide.”

“It’s spelled L-A-I-G-L-E” says the bald kid. “So you can piss off.”

Grantaire’s allowing himself to be distracted, which is a thing he’s pretty good at, but as they start to file into the hall the fear starts to gnaw at him. He wants more than anything to run away, to refuse point-blank to let something _see inside him_ and _work out what he’s good for_. He wonders if it’ll simply spit him out and tell him to go home. But Grantaire’s not brave enough to run away, not strong enough to refuse. He falls into line, lets his feet mimic the feet in front of him.

He barely pays attention as the sorting ceremony begins. A tall boy with glasses called Combeferre is sent to Ravenclaw. Some other kid called Courfeyrac, whom Grantaire recalls seemed to have made twenty friends before the train had even left the station, is put into Hufflepuff. Grantaire’s heart’s beating faster and faster, and he wishes he were sitting nearer Joly and Lesgles or Laigle or whatever he was called, because he could really do with having someone to whisper jokes in his ear right now, which is what those two appear to be up to. Joly’s mostly-silent giggling sometimes becomes audible and attracts a stern glare from the headmistress.

And Grantaire’s trying to make himself think about honestly anything other than the fact that this is really happening, he’s really about to be judged before an audience of hundreds of people, the nightmare’s real and he can’t wake up from it and -

\- And then the blonde boy steps onto the stage, and for a minute everything’s suffused with light. The hat shouts out a jubilant “GRYFFINDOR!” almost as soon as it touches his head.

It’s at this point that Grantaire allows his mind to get absorbed in a single, stupid wish. This is probably where he goes wrong. If he’d been able to handle reality, if he’d been able to bear the actual crushing truth of what was happening to him, or even if he’d successfully checked out, sleepwalked through the whole agonising procedure - if he’d done any of these things, he’d probably have been more or less okay.

Instead, he decides that there’s something he wants more than anything he’s ever wanted in his whole stupid life.

He barely notices the next few sortings, until they’re up to the girl in front of him who elicits a ringing “Gibelotte - GRYFFINDOR!”.

Gryffindor, his head echoes. Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor.

He walks up to the platform and he can’t even tell if he’s walking really slowly or if time’s just being cruel.  He sits on the chair, and the hat lowers over his head.

“Oh, hello,” says a quiet voice in his ear. “This is interesting. Lots to work with. A brain and a heart, oh my. Not Gryffindor, I think, no. Ravenclaw, that could work. That heart, though. Hmm-hmm. No, I still think that’s our best bet.”

 _Do I get a choice?_ Grantaire thinks.

“Oh, you always get a choice,” says the Hat, cheerily. “But you need to make it wisely. You’ll have a good time in Ravenclaw. Plenty of opportunity to talk about all those books you filled your trunk with. You’ve quite the mind in there, you should share it with others. One word of warning, though - it doesn’t all need to fit together. Some things can’t be justified, and that’s the beginning and end of it. A mind that sharp can cut itself to ribbons, you know.”

 _No_ , thinks Grantaire. _I don’t want that._

“Well, as I said, you always have a choice,” says the Hat. “Although, again, I would exhort you to choose carefully.”

 _Gryffindor,_ thinks Grantaire. _I choose Gryffindor._

“I really can’t advise it,” says the Hat. “You’ve so many good qualities, and I’d hate to see them go to waste. Shall we settle on Slytherin? You do know, don’t you, that Slytherins love more deeply than any other house? Others might let principle, or truth, or humanity get in the way of their passion but Slytherin… well, I think you’ll know what I mean when I say that Slytherins understand that love _is_ principle, and love _is_ truth, and that humanity is valuable only because of its capacity for love. Yes, the more I talk about this, the more I like it. Let love be your gift. Love and loyalty.”

But Grantaire’s still gripping the sides of the chair. He can’t take in everything the Hat’s saying - a lot of it doesn’t even make sense - but he can hang onto the chair and he can hang onto his decision. _I refuse_ , he thinks.

The hat goes silent for a second, and Grantaire wonders if he’s broken it. “Have you considered Hufflepuff, at all?” asks the Hat. “I think they might even be able to teach you something of your own worth. In Slytherin you’d never be alone, but in Hufflepuff you’ll never be lonely. You’re kind, and warm, and maybe we can make something of this persistence of yours. Doesn’t that appeal to you? A happy life, full of laughter and friends who’ll always remind you not to be too serious? Yes, perhaps that would be for the best. Hufflepuff. Do you consent?”

And Grantaire can’t even remember what he’s doing any more, how he got here, where he is. He’s lost, dimly conscious of the fact that he’s been sitting here a long time and everyone’s looking at him. He’s about to say _yes_ just to make the thing happy, but then he looks over to the Gryffindor table and there’s the Enjolras boy, his hair set off by the red and gold of the tablecloth, and he knows, quite helplessly, that the choice he’s being given is no choice at all.

 _Gryffindor,_ he thinks, with desperation. _I’m not getting off this chair until you say Gryffindor._

“It won’t work, you know,” says the Hat, sadly. “It’s not as simple as that. You need to be in a place where you belong, not simply one that’s near him. You can’t make yourself into something you’re not. And don’t forget, I’ve seen inside him, as well. I’m not about to divulge any secrets, but I can’t promise you happiness either. Not if you follow this path.”

 _You’ll see_ , thinks Grantaire, not even convincing himself.

“Very well,” says the Hat. “I won’t bargain any more; if you insist, then GRYFFINDOR”

The last word rings out to fill the hall. Grantaire takes the hat from his head, gets down from the stage, and is already halfway to the Gryffindor table by the time it dawns on him that he’s made an enormous, catastrophic, life-ruining mistake.


End file.
